


Souls Intertwined

by Pippins_Mushr00ms



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Gen, Modern Era, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-07-23 21:49:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16167578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippins_Mushr00ms/pseuds/Pippins_Mushr00ms
Summary: Their souls were always destined to be intertwined. When college student Diarmuid starts having odd dreams, his friends suggests past life regression. But that's something that only happens to little kids, right?This started out as an idea of a series of modern/alternate universes in which Diarmuid and the Mute always find each other. However, not every ending is a happy one.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

* * *

Diarmuid went back to the beach. Of course he had. The sailor was so terrified of the wrath of the Baron, he'd initially refused. It was only when the young monk wordlessly held out the bag of jewels again did the old man relent. Even then, his help was found wanting. He wouldn't row any further once the water was at Diarmuid's shoulder.

The men on the beach stared intently at the little boat.

The monk understood, however. He probably had a family to take care of. So once he'd hopped out of the boat and into the frigid waters, he'd tossed the bag of jewels to him, murmured a blessing over him, and fared him well.

He steeled himself, flexed his aching neck and slogged his way to shore. His robes dragged at him and he soon started puffing for air. He never took his eyes off the Mute.

The man lay on his side, with some sort of bolt sticking out of his belly. It made the young man's stomach hurt to look at and he thought he'd be sick right there in the ocean.

Diarmuid tripped when the water was about at his knees, splashing face first into the water gracelessly. He scrambled back up, coughing. His robes were _so heavy._

Finally, _finally_ , he reached the Mute. His weary body ached, his muscles burned, but somehow he managed to roll his friend onto his back. His usually intense face was slack and empty. Diarmuid's vision suddenly blurred.

" _Glè thric_ , please wake up," he panted, shaking him gently.

There was no response from him.

" _Glè thric, please!_ " he whispered, horror creeping into his gut.

He put two shaking fingers over his neck, where his pulsepoint ought to be.

And heard a strangled sob burst from his throat when he felt the faint, thready heartbeat.

"Please, _please_ wake up!" His voice cracked.

Diarmuid shook him as hard as he dared.

His eyelids seemed too heavy as he wrenched them open. Sliding in and out of focus, they finally found Diarmuid's frightened face. The Mute's hand locked onto his own with a groan. A shock ran up the young monk's spine.

"Thank God, thank God," he murmured, touching his forehead to the Mute's.

Another cry was ripped from him when several rough pairs of hands suddenly dragged him away. There was a moment of resistance when the Mute clutched Diarmuid's wrist painfully, with wide, panicked eyes, but ultimately, they were separated again.

* * *

 

Diarmuid woke with a jolt. He gasped for air and his eyes were wide in the darkness. Sweat made him sticky and uncomfortable. He quickly recognized his own room, in his own apartment. He scrabbled for his phone to check the time. The bright screen made him squint.

4:39am.

He had class in in three and a half hours. Blessedly, this was the last day before spring break. All that was on the roster was course review and a refresher for the final details on their semester project.

He sighed, bent over his phone and a drop of sweat landed on the screen. 

No.

No, not sweat.

Dazed, the young man reached up and was surprised to find his eyes damp. Fresh tears still ran down his face.

Diarmuid groaned softly, confused. Had it all been a dream? It'd been so real. Who were all those people? More importantly, who was the man with the crucifix tattoo on his back?

It was almost painful, how achingly familiar the intense face was. Where had he seen it before?

The young man wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. His heart was still thudding in his ears as he fought to control his breathing.

He set his phone back on his bedside table and flopped down on his pillow.

Diarmuid closed his eyes, trying to remember every detail of the man's face. He could still almost smell the tang of copper and salt on the air. The clash of armor rang in his ears. The desperation he felt in his dream still clawed at his throat.

" _Glè thric_ '," he murmured, covering his eyes with his arm.

' _What does that even mean?'_ he wondered, taking a deep breath. Details were already slipping away.

Before he could forget, he grabbed is phone again, opened a memo, and typed out the word as best he could. He'd Google it in the morning.

* * *

 

To be continued…

 **Notes** : There we are, have a little fic. lets see where this little baby goes.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

* * *

The next morning, Diarmuid woke early. He felt sluggish, ill-rested and wasn't sure why. He'd… he'd had some sort of nightmare last night, he thought.

He sat in the kitchen, still pajama clad. He was nursing a cup of overly sweetened coffee, trying to remember the dream.

There was blood, wasn't there? And leather, maybe? He recalled the scent of the ocean too, even though he'd never been there.The young man set his mug down and massaged his temples. He felt the beginnings of a headache setting in behind his puffy eyes.

"It's gonna be a long day," he groaned out loud.

"Why's that?" came a voice behind him.

Diarmuid twitched and turned around in his chair. His roommate stood in the hallway, boxers, and tanktop, rubbing his short, messy hair. He turned back to his coffee.

"Mornin', Cat. It's nothing. Just a weird dream," he shrugged. "It was just really intense."

He and Cat had been best friends with each other about ten years now, he guessed. Cat was short for Cathal. His parents (fondly) claimed that since the day he'd been old enough to pronounce his own name, he'd never let them hear the end of it. He went by Cat because he didn't fancy himself a 'Hal'.

Diarmuid checked the time on his phone and sighed. He should probably get moving if he didn't want to be late. He stood up and went to the sink to rinse his mug out.

"Oh." Cat yawned. "Wanna talk about it?"

Diarmuid shook his head.

"I can't right now, sorry. Maybe later? I have to get going."

"Okay, are we all still on for drinks later? Celebrate spring break? Or drinks and tell me about your dream then?" Cat yawned, pouring his own coffee.

"Yeah, sure, that sounds good," Diarmuid replied, already partially on autopilot.

* * *

The day passed in a haze of more coffee, paperwork, last minute presentations, and the sharing of spring break plans. A few years ago, Diarmuid had been almost shocked that college professors got almost as excited as their pupils about academic time off.

Diarmuid forgot all about the strange word he'd typed on his phone in the whirlwind and soon found himself at home again, dumping his backpack by the door and carefully placing the laptop bag on the kitchen counter.

He flopped on the blue couch, briefly considered going for a run and despite the copious amount of caffeine he'd been steadily feeding himself, fell asleep waiting for Cat.

It was like unpausing a movie.

* * *

The Mute rolled onto all fours, huffing, never taking his eyes off his friend as they pulled him a few yards away.

" _Fan! Chan eil! Leig dhomh falbh! feuch, tha feum aige air cuideachadh!_ "  
("Wait! No! Let me go! please, he needs help!") The monk shouted, struggling against the soldiers.

A quick, sharp blow to the head slowed his efforts and they quickly bound his wrists tight in front of him, leaving a length of slack (to lead him, he vaguely assumed). He lay in the sand, gasping, nearly blinded with pain. Something warm trickled down his scalp. The beach spun sickeningly and he was paralyzed as the two of the three soldiers turned to face the Mute.

With a soft, snarled "no!", the scarred man rose up, fists clenched and ready. He swayed on his feet, but stayed standing. The entire time, he never stopped watching his companion. His eyes grew dark and menacing again.

With a jolt, Diarmuid's guard hoisted him by the scruff of his robes. He gagged as his air was momentarily cut off by his collar.

"Fight no more or the little monk will die!" the monk's guard shouted and the boy stiffened when he felt cold steel tight at his throat.

" _Ruith air falbh! Teicheadh!_  (Run away! Flee!)" He cried, jerking away.

The soldier yanked him back by his robe and bashed the hilt of his sword into the monk's collarbone, sending all the air out of his body. Just as quickly, the steel was lain across his throat again. Diarmuid blacked out for just a second, panting and willing his legs to stay beneath him.

* * *

"Hey, Di! wake up! It's time to go! Whoa!"

Someone was shouting at him, shaking him. Diarmuid grabbed the hand on his chest and wrenched it away with a gasp. His eyes snapped open to see a thin face hovering over his own.

"You okay?"

Diarmuid flinched, pressed back into the couch and away from the soldier without thinking. The steel still bit at his neck.

Then he came back and realized he was holding Cat's wrist. He let go as if burnt. His roommate was looking at him funny. Something warm slipped down his cheek.

The young man sucked in a breath, quickly wiped his eyes and tried to shake his head clear.

" _Duilich_ , sorry, i-it was another nightmare." Diarmuid tried and failed miserably to shrug it off.

He hated how shakey his voice sounded to his own ears. He looked around for… what, exactly? He didnt know, but it felt like something so,  _so_ important. Diarmuid focused on his friend again, still off.

"What?" Cat asked. "What the hell was that?"

"It was a nightmare again," Diarmuid repeated. "Sorry if, you know…"

He trailed off and motioned to his own wrist. That seemed to snap Cat out of his staring. His incredulous expression was replaced with one of curiosity and he flopped down on the couch next to his friend.

"No, I meant what the hell were those  _words_? You don't speak Spanish, do you?"

"No, what words?"

"Du-lick, something like that, I guess. Right when you woke up, but you said something else too. I didn't catch it. I dunno, didn't sound English though," Cat sounded thoughtful, like it was familiar.

Diarmuid was quiet for a few moments, thinking. His brows furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"I was… uh… what was it? I think… i was telling someone to… run? Ugh, I don't remember," he huffed.

Then his face lit up. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. His curls fell into his eyes and he shoved them back, annoyed.  Cat was staring intently.

"I said something else last night like this, actually," Diarmuid murmured, pulling up the memo. He squinted at it and read, "Uh, glathrick or something. I didn't know how to spell it."

Cat pulled out his own phone, fiddled with it for a second before holding it out to his friend.

"Here, try saying it into Translate," he suggested.

Diarmuid took the phone, feeling a little silly. He cleared his throat, and glanced up at Cat. He looked down and pressed the microphone icon. It lit up, waiting for him to speak.

" _Duilich,"_  he said slowly and clearly, wincing at his own awkwardness.

The phone scrolled a little hourglass before it the feminine computer voice said back:  _"Duilich means 'apologies' in Gaelic."_

Diarmuid looked at Cat, confused. His friend looked flabbergasted too. He tapped the mic icon again, still looking at Cat.

" _Glè thric."_

 _"Glè thric means 'mute' in Gaelic,"_ the phone responded.

"Mute?"

* * *

To be continued…


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The pair stared at each other for a few moments. Neither knew what to say. Diarmuid's mind was churning. The brain didn't just dream stuff like that. He had to have come into contact with it somehow, right? That's how he read it worked, anyway.

"So, you dream in Gaelic now, huh? That's new," Cat said to break the silence.

"Uh, yeah, apparently." Diarmuid's voice sounded far off, thoughtful. "I mean, I must have heard those words somewhere, yeah?"

The phone in his hand started buzzing and wordlessly, Diarmuid handed it back to Cat. He glanced at the the screen before answering.

"Hello? Hey! What's going on? Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah, he's right here. Hold on, let me ask."

Cat covered the mic and nodded at Diarmuid.

"Rua wants to know if we're ready. Do you still wanna go to the Cloister? Two for one happy hour?" He whispered, wagging his eyebrows.

The Cloister was a few blocks away from their apartment. Annoying to walk when cold, but perfectly fine (and cheaper) on a mild night like tonight. And the young man had to admit, half the fun was the rowdy walk back home.

Diarmuid perked up a bit and nodded. A night out would be good.

* * *

" _Chan eil, Diarmuid, (no)_ " the Mute's voice was horse from disuse, and tight from nerves, but the warmth made the monk open his stinging eyes again.

The Mute dropped his hands to his side in surrender and one soldier immediately moved forward to take hold of his thick arms while the other bound the bolt securely. When that was done, they bound his hands in front of him as well.

" _Ach, ce putain de barbe! Ah, eh bien, il mourra d'une manière ou d'une autre. Avec un peu de chance, il fera le voyage de retour pour camper, sinon ce petit devra faire,_ " said the one tying off the wound.

("ach, this goddamn barb! Ah, well, he'll die one way or the other. Hopefully, he makes the journey back to camp, otherwise this little one will have to do.")

" _Tsk! un tel gaspillage d'un joli visage!_ " said the other, chuckling. ("Tsk! Such a waste of a pretty face!")

The Mute's face darkened, and before he could stop himself, he flexed out of their grip and threw an elbow at the one who'd spoken. The man fell, holding a bleeding, broken nose.

The soldier who held the Mute's bonds yanked him forward and off his feet. He landed hard on his knees and hissed when the end of the bolt tagged the sand.

 _"I said 'don't move'!"_  Diarmuid's guard bellowed, shaking him and pressing the sword tighter against the boy's throat.

His pulse buzzed in his ears, and he slipped and hot blood ran down his cold, clammy skin. He must have let out some sort of sound, (he damned himself for later) for the Mute froze, except to shout his name.

The man holding his nose stood up and delivered a vicious kick to the Mute's face. The force of it threw him to the ground. He rolled clumsily on impact so the bolt wouldn't be jarred, but still, a grunt escaped him. He lay there, chest heaving, and glaring death at Diarmuid's captor until he was hauled back to his feet.

"Consider yourselves under arrest for treason," the knight announced, "Now, walk."

* * *

Liam Byrne was not a fearful man. He faced life head on. Always did what had to be done.

That was even before his first tour.

Boot camp, he excelled at. Superb fitness, immense strength, spot on accuracy. Hell, he tackled every area of his studies.

With his end of his tour almost within his reach, he had one more mission. Get out, deliver supplies to the camps, get home.

Only a couple hours out of base, their convoy started eating machine gun sandwiches. Ambush. He took a shot to the throat that sent him home, miraculously, not in a casket.

So, he figured, he didn't have much to bitch about. He'd come home, recovered, found a job, and moved on. His throat still hurt on cold days, but that wasn't too much to complain about. Just like some knees ached before rain, his neck ached too. It was just part of life.

This was just, what? A mild case of PTSD? He could deal with that.

At least that's what he told his therapist.

So when Liam woken screaming in the night, for the nth time this week, he assumed there had to be something triggering his brain. However his therapist had explained it.

The first time he woke screaming was with visions of burning villages, shrieking peasants playing in his mind. The details of the dream faded, but the strange feeling of guilt and shame?

He had a hard time shaking that one the next day.

The second time was when the face of a young man floated in front of him, pleading with him in another language. He didn't know what 'glathrick' meant. He was desperate, frightened and so,  _so_  innocent and Liam knew he had to protect him.

He woke up crying that night and did not go back to sleep.

The third time, he came to with the distinct taste of blood in his mouth, convinced he'd been attacked. Fire radiated from his belly as if he'd been shot again. He was in the middle of searching his apartment for signs of intrusion when he realized he'd bitten his tongue, there was no mark on his flat stomach and that he was being ridiculous. (So he told himself)

This time, he'd jolted awake, yelling. His arm was outstretched, reaching for that asshole that had the sword to that far-too-young monk's throat. He still could smell blood. Could see the wide, fearful eyes staring through dark, wet curls. They were being led somewhere and the monk ( _'Diarmuid,'_  Liam remembered with a shock) was hurt and it was his- ( _no, not his_ ) the  _Mute's_  fault. The monk should have left him to his fate and gone on to safety.

Liam took a deep, shuddery breath and rubbed his eyes, unsurprised to find them damp again.

"Diarmuid," he said softly.

* * *

To be continued….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, i do not know much about the process of being a soldier. I can bullshit through it okay and not feel too guilty, but if anything is blaringly wrong, please feel free to correct me. I would appreciate it, as i like the realism.
> 
> Here are some things i learned when i was trying to pick a name for the Mute:
> 
> \- Diarmuid means 'friend to all', awwww  
> \- Cathal means great warrior, btw  
> \- Cairan means little dark one  
> \- Liam means strong protector  
> \- Byrne means Raven
> 
> So there you go, some bonus content haha


	4. Chapter 4

 

Chapter Four

Liam shoved the light blanket off him and pushed himself off the couch. He made his way to the bathroom, barefoot on the cool hardwood floors. He made sure to move silently, despite being alone.

He splashed cold water over his face a few times to wake up before he looked at himself in the mirror. The vague thought that his hair was getting too long settled into the back of his mind. His skin was a shade or two paler than he'd have liked, making the dark scruff on his face stand out. He purposely let his eyes slide obliviously over the marks on his neck as if they weren't there.

The man didn't like how his large hands still tremored or the feeling of desperation still clinging to him. Anxious energy made him want to pace.

He looked himself in the eye. His hazel orbs were feral and almost fever bright. Liam didn't recognize them. He could hear his pulse speed up in his ears.

It was only when he felt his lungs burning and he heard himself gasp softly when he realized he was heading into a panic attack.

He closed his eyes for a moment, jolting when a vision of a four pronged barb flashed behind his eyelids. His jaw clenched.

He took a deep breath through his nose and gripped the sides of the sink. The tendons of his wrists ached threateningly. On the exhale he opened his eyes again, made eye contact with the mirror and shook his head almost imperceptibly at himself.

Liam repeated this until he didn't  _quite_  feel like ripping the sink off the white, tiled wall. A thin sheen of cold sweat had broken across his forehead. His hands felt weak and heavy.

Still, as he tried to shrug the tension out of his shoulders, he thought those dreams had to mean  _something_. Liam could feel it in his gut. He'd never seen that young man before in his life. If he had, surely he'd remember. The setting of the dreams alone certainly felt real enough to exist  _somewhere_ in the world. The vivid greenery and rolling hills reminded him, hinted at him. If he could figure out the  _where_ , maybe he could figure out the  _who._  

 _'Diarmuid,'_  he thought suddenly. He was shocked at the name and surprised at the comfort it seemed to bring him.

Liam sighed, feeling confused, frustrated, and helpless. The whole thing felt like having a word on the tip of his tongue. A walk in the cool night air might help clear his head. He rubbed his eyes and then checked his watch. It wasn't very late. There was a bar a few blocks away. He could have a drink.

 _'A drink, then maybe a little research,'_ he thought to himself, stooping to put on his boots. 

* * *

Diarmuid sipped at his second rum and coke, smiling wanly at Rua. The older boy was telling a story some sort of prank on one of the freshman dorm's common room. His moss colored eyes glinted mischievously under the shaded light fixture above their booth.

Truth be told, he'd partially tuned out and was mostly watching the moderate crowd in the small, dimly lit bar. The decor was simple, alluding to a old tavern.

There was a suit of armor propped near the door at the end of the bar. A few old, wooden shields hung against the scarlet wall, along with a couple of old looking pennants on rods. Aside from a few training weapons hung behind the bar, that was it for aesthetics. The rest of the place was typical bar decor.

That was okay. All the bars along this strip had a gimmick, whether it be Hawaiian luau or a knock-off Camelot, but this one was the one they loved best. It felt… homey.

He was bobbing his head along to the song on the speakers when he heard his name. Diarmuid zeroed in on his friend's face. The older boy was peering at him intently.

"What?" He laughed, a little awkward. "Sorry, I was people watching."

Rua smiled, steepling his fingers together over the table. Diarmuid heard the faint jingle of the many bracelets his friend wore as they tumbled from his hand to further down his wrist.

"Cat was telling us about a dream you had. Sounds awfully interesting, dreaming in another language," Rua raised his eyebrows suggestively, inviting Diarmuid to speak. "Want me to do a reading on you?"

"Oh, he was, was he?" Diarmuid felt the smile slip a little from his face, forced a chuckle and shot an annoyed look at the suspect.

Cat at least had the decency to look sheepish. He shrugged and mouthed "sorry" before taking a long pull off his drink. Diarmuid scrubbed a hand through his curly hair and sighed, unsure if he wanted to talk about the gristly scenes.

"So…?" Rua prompted, bringing Diarmuid's attention back to him. He smiled sweetly, pulling a small, maroon, cloth bag out of his coat pocket. Diarmuid recognized it instantly and knew it contained a set of tarot cards. "Details, please?"

"Actually," Diarmuid flashed Rua an apologetic grin. "Can we come back to this subject after we've had another drink or two? It was, like, really vivid and pretty messed up. I promise we'll get to it."

Rua nodded, interest thoroughly peaked, and tucked the cards away for later.

* * *

A few beverages after, they trio was pleasantly mellow and chatting about their plans for their school break. When Rua decided to skillfully steered the conversation back towards dreams, he raised his eyebrows at Diarmuid.

The boy stopped swaying to the wordless instrumental rock music playing over the speakers. Cat returned to the booth with a round of blueish looking shots. He parcelled them out between the three of them before sitting down.

"Okay, ready?" Rua asked, leaning forward once more.

"Ugh, okay, okay," Diarmuid groaned, running a hand over his face. An odd jolt in his gut struck as he lurched into the story.

Slowly, and occasionally slurring over his words, Diarmuid related to them the macabre tale.

The boy's audience hadn't even realized they were sitting on the edge of their seats.They hung onto his every word with baited breath and sat in stunned silence as he finished telling them about the translation app. He hoped he'd aptly conveyed the same sense of helplessness and despair he'd felt.

"Dude…" Rua said quietly. "You weren't kidding about the vivid imaginary."

He'd stopped spinning the silver bangle around his wrist and had his hands folded on the table. Rua's face had become thoughtful.

"Whoa," Cat murmured.

Diarmuid cleared his throat and focused on a blue pennant behind the bar. The silver silloette of a dragon painted on a black circle was far too interesting at the moment. He was uncomfortable being the center of attention.

"That… that sounds a lot like past life regression," Rua mused, looking pensively into his Long Island ice tea.

"Past life what now?" Diarmuid shook himself enough to scoff at the idea. He looked at Rua. "No way, that's not a thing."

He'd read enough stories about it to know he couldn't possibly be a candidate.

"Yes, way! It's totally a thing!" Cat exclaimed, sitting back.

"I mean, yeah, it  _is_  a thing, but not in  _this_  case. That stuff only happens to little kids!"

Rua took a sip of his drink and thought about what he wanted to say. His brows slowly began to furrow and he set the glass down.

"Okay. I know it's weird for memories to present themselves so much later in life, but it's still possible," he began to explain. "Late onset could be from any number of triggers. A movie, a photo, a smell. If the memory is there, it's there."

"Ugh, you're drunk," Diarmuid chuckled, taking another drink of his own beverage.

"So are you!" Rua shot back, smiling. Then he leaned in, his grin slipping a little. "But seriously, images aside, what were you  _feeling_? I know dreams can make you feel things, but its really about the intensity."

Cat and Diarmuid looked at each other, both remembering the tears.

The curly haired boy remembered the spine-chilling desperation as the tattooed man was dragged away. He unconsciously clenched his hands into fists, remembering the way the ocean had stung the open wounds on his skin as he slogged his way to shore. The spent muscles sore and weak with effort. The salty air had been sweet with freedom for a few moments, but then terror when the scent of salt had turned to copper.

He shuddered when he felt phantom pains in his shoulder. The bloodied face of the Mute floated into his vision.

"Diarmuid?" a voice asked, far away.

His jade eyes snapped open and he took a sharp breath. The boy took another swig of alcohol to keep his hands busy, carefully avoiding the gazes of his friends. Rua repeated his name.

Diarmuid looked up and saw that concern had replaced the awe and disbelief that had been on his friends' faces. He swallowed hard.

"Are you all right?" Cat asked gently.

Diarmuid didn't know, so he shrugged noncommittally. The whole idea was a little much for his addled mind. All he knew for sure was the intense feelings these dreams gave off.

* * *

Laim strode up to the doors of the Cloister, waving to the bouncer posted outside. He knew the man by sight but didn't know the man's name. He passed through the wooden doors and into the dimly lit bar.

* * *

TBC....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this is going somewhere, i need to work on my timeline and flesh out some stuff, but i still wanted to post something because its been so long now ugh. I'll probably go back an edit this down or clean it up. Tell me what you thought, call me out on some bullshit hahaha


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 _ **Notes** :_ i am so sorry to have left you guys hanging omg. My writing style is best described as sporadic and OCD at best.

* * *

Liam blinked at the suddenness dimmness of the bar. The speakers played their music at a reasonable level as he made his way to the counter.

The crowd was sparse tonight, he noticed, glancing around. Aside from a few fellow regulars perched on barstools, a table of three or four women, and a booth of laughing young men, clearly already partially inebriated. Otherwise, the place was pretty empty.

To be fair, it usually  _was_  a pretty quiet place. That was why Liam enjoyed it. Compared to the other joints on the main strip, with their loud, thumping music, flashing lights, and megaphone-happy DJs, a lot of the "bars" were more like dance clubs.

The the hanging pennants, low-light levels and strictly background music was very much preferable to Liam. Something about the stone-painted walls and wooden rafters comforted him. It was comfortable. It felt… homey.

He made his way to the counter and nodded at the bartender once they'd made eye contact. The tall, stocky man waved his dish towel at him and smiled.

"Usual?" He asked gruffly, tossing down the towel.

Liam nodded and the barkeeper set to work. Bottle clinked against glass as he poured out a double of whiskey. Cirian slid it in front of him, then turned to the cooler to pull out of bottle of beer.

"How ya been, Cirian?" He asked, settling himself down on an empty stool. He took a sip of the waiting whiskey, relishing the burn it gave off in his chest.

"All right," came his Irish lilted reply. "You're not though. You look like shyte. Spill."

Liam raised an eyebrow at the man as he set the beer in front of him.

"I can read you like a book, son. Out with it. You not sleeping again?"

He took another sip of his whiskey, keeping his eyes on the barkeep. Cirian had been where he was once. He understood.

Damned if his bluntness was every bit of refreshing as it was irritating anyway.

Slowly, he nodded his head.

Cirian nodded back. He grabbed himself a glass, shoveled in a bit of ice from the cooler under the counter, and grabbed the soda nozzle from the holder. With one hand he sprayed a stream of cola into his glass. With the other, he drew up the stool he kept stashed next to the cooler.

Replacing the soda nozzle when his glass was about two thirds full, Cirian glanced around to be sure none of his customers needed him for the moment, then lowered himself onto the stool.

"Yeh wanna talk or yeh wanna drink?"

Liam shrugged.

"Probably a couple drinks," he mumbled, lifting the glass to his lips again. "Bad dreams."

"Aye. Been using those breathing techniques?"

"Yes," Liam said quietly.

"Talkin' to your therapist?"

The younger man lifted a corner of his mouth in a halfhearted smile. He shrugged again, taking another gulp. The burn made his stomach glow.

"I may have mentioned them in passing."

"How long they been going on this time?"

"Almost a week now. Every night," he sighed, setting the glass back down.

Cirian took a drink of his soda and waved for Liam to continue speaking.

With another soft sigh, he toyed with the glass between his hands. Slowly, he began to tell Cirian about the burning village, the peasants, the fear. The lingering emotions that lasted all the next day.

* * *

Diarmuid sloshed a bit of his drink as he put it to his lips. He was vaguely aware of the door opening and someone in dark clothes walking in.

Talking about the dreams soured his mood, as he knew it would, but he soldiered on, determined to not ruin the night. He'd been trying to shake it off, honest, but it was difficult with Rua needling him about tarot cards every few minutes.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he announced after the sixth time he'd pushed the maroon bag away from him.

Diarmuid slugged the rest of his rum and coke back and stood, keeping the empty glass in his hand. He wobbled and steadied himself by placing his other hand on the back of their booth.

Pretending not to notice the look his friends gave each other, he turned and began to make his way to the bathroom. When he passed the end of the bar, he placed his glass down with a soft knock on the wood.

Cirian had been talking intently to the customer sitting across from him and Diarmuid didn't want to interrupt. The man had his back to him, head down and didn't look up from his glass.

Cirian glanced up at the noise.

"Want another?" He asked, making to stand.

"No, thank you. Hit my limit," the young man half chuckled.

The bartender nodded, smiling and Diarmuid continued his quest to the restroom.

* * *

When the door to the bathroom closed behind him, all the noise stopped. The music, the talking. Everything was quiet.

He walked across the brown tiles, bypassing the stalls and urinals, to the sinks. His stomach lurched a little. He'd drank too much trying to quell his anxiety.

Swaying slightly, Diarmuid placed his hands on either side of one before staring into the mirror.

His eyebrows were furrowed, mouth pulled thin. His reflection looked angry, then exasperated as he groaned at himself. There was no need for him to feel so frantic. They were just  _dreams_  and his friends were curious. So what?

Still, he wondered if Cirian would let him sneak out the back door. He could be home and barricaded in his room before anyone would be any wiser.

Diarmuid scoffed at himself and shook his head.

He turned on the tap, pushed his sleeves up, and splashed his face with the cold water.

He was reaching blindly for the paper towel holder next to the sink when one of the stall doors opened. Footsteps.

"Good?" someone's gruff voice asked.

Diarmuid squinted through his dripping eyelashes, set his sights on the roll and grabbed a few towels.

"Yeh, thanks. Jus' a little too much fun tonight, I guess," came Diarmuid's muffled response as he dried off his face.

"Oh."

Then:

"Give me your wallet."

"Sorry, wha-?"

Before he could lower the paper towels, a rough hand fisted through his curly hair and yanked him up, making him grunt in surprise. Automatically, Diarmuid reached up and grabbed the foreign wrist.

Another hand slipped quickly between Diarmuid's upraised hand and collar bone. Something pointy poked the base of his throat.

"Oh, sh--"

"Don't move," the man commanded, pushing the pointy thing harder against his skin.

Diarmuid froze. Absurdly, he realized he still had paper towels in his hand. He let them flutter to the floor.

In the mirror, their reflections showed a pained, panicked Diarmuid and an older, well dressed man behind him, cool and calm. His dark hair and short, black beard were a stark contrast to the pale of his skin. A silver knife was pressed against his jugular vein.

"Your wallet," the man repeated, tightening his grip on his hair. He grinned, baring sharp, white teeth. He jerked the younger man's head back. "And your phone."

Hissing softly, Diarmuid fumbled around his jacket pockets. There was a hard rectangle in the slippery lining and he grabbed it with shaky hands. Then he heard the sound of the phone clattering to the floor.

"You--"

The man maneuvered them away from the sink and shoved Diarmuid hard against the wall. He yelped when his cheek hit the tile.

He let go of the man's wrist and tried vainly to push off the hard surface, but the mystery man had some weight on him and handled him easily.

"What're you-- uh!"

He'd used the curly hair to pull his head back and slammed it down again. Diarmuid saw stars. Someone shouted. Dimmly, he was aware that the tiles were wet. Why would the walls be--

The young man left behind a smear of red as his face slipped down.

Oh.

"Wallet. Now."

The door suddenly burst open, bringing with it the sounds of the bar. The mystery man startled badly. Almost in slow motion, he swung his captive around to face the noise. Diarmuid felt the blade sink into his neck with a pop. 

Sound seemed far away but was so loud at the same time. He tasted copper. Horrified and stumbling, the young man clapped a hand over his wound and looked up.

His eyes located the source of the intrusion and they widened in shock.

His breath stopped.

He knew that face.

He could  _never_  forget that face.

Liam Byrne, in all his dark fury, shot across the bathroom. His face contorted as he yelled something. Diarmuid couldn't hear him.

"Glé thric," he gasped, reaching out a trembling hand.

There was a fraction of a moment where the tall man froze. His left hand twitched towards the Diarmuid. His lips moved wordlessly.

Then the young man was thrown bodily to the floor, where he tried to roll away from the danger, but his arms and legs didn't seem to be cooperating. Blood made his fingers slippery. He couldn't hold his neck. Breaths came in short, unproductive whistles.

 _'He's here,'_  Diarmuid thought frantically.  _'He's really here.'_

His vision was cloudy and narrow, but he scrabbled into a sitting position. Adrenaline finally surged through him. A hand found the edge of the stalls and Diarmuid used it to make sure he wasn't actually spinning.

He could hear blows landing, grunting. A metallic clatter. Someone shouted some more. He clutched at his throat again and forced his eyes to focus. He had to find something to keep pressure on his neck. 

There. 

The discarded paper towels. It was better than nothing. Diarmuid lurched for them. Landed on his side, but managed to reach them. He got them pressed down, and propped himself up on his elbow.

Amid the sounds of the scuffle, Diarmuid thought he blacked out. He heard swords ringing together in his mind, deafening him. He caught the scent of salt and leather. Felt wet sand beneath him.

"G-glé thric," he gasped out.

And everything went silent.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note** :_ all right, there we go! What'd you think of that? I thought it was a little nondescript and a little forced, but I'll probably come back and edit a bit.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Chapter Six

Liam knew the voice the moment he spoke his first syllable to Cirian. A voice seared into his brain as if by cattle prod. His pulse quickened and the hair on the back of hjs neck stood at attention. He was ashamed to admit that hearing it stopped him cold, eyes frozen on his nearly empty glass.

He looked up in time to catch sight of the back of him, opening and closing the bathroom door, but the voice and form were unmistakable.

"Who is that kid?" he breathed, knowing the answer.

"Hm? Oh, Diarmuid? College kid. Kinda timid, but tougher than he thinks. Been coming in here almost a year now." Cirian asked. "Why?"

Liam locked eyes with the older man.

"That's him,"

"Wh--?"

"From my dream, Cirian. That's him."

"Now, wait, you don't know that, you didn't even see his face, did you?"

"I don't need to see his face! And I  _know_  I've never seen that kid in there in my whole life!" Liam hissed, anger licking at his guts. "So h-how is that him?"

They were both silent for a moment as Liam's focus slid to the bathroom door again. A sick feeling replaced replaced the anger, flooding his veins with ice. His thundering heart in his throat threatened to choke him out.

"Liam," said Cirian warningly, "are you--?"

He broke off when there came a faint shout behind the bathroom door. Liam was on his feet in a flash, grinding his teeth. He made quick eye contact with the bartender.

"Call the police," demanded Liam.

And he booted the door in.

* * *

The man in the dark coat spun, bringing the young man with him. Liam didn't see the knife until it was too late. A red stain blossomed at the neck of Diarmuid's shirt.

"Let him go!" Liam roared after he barged in.

_"Glé thric."_

Liam froze, finding the young man's wide, scared eyes. He knew. They both knew.

"It's me," he said, twitching a hand.

The man in the coat suddenly flung Diarmuid away from himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw him scrabbling bonelessly on the floor. The mystery man launched himself at Liam, red blade glinting under the florescent lights.

He caught the man easily, swinging the blade wide and away from his ribs. Instinct caused him to duck and raise an arm when the stranger tried to throw a haymaker. The blow glanced off his forearm and Liam countered with a sharp jab to the man's kidney. There was a grunt, indicating his fist found the right mark and suddenly Liam had breathing room as the man leapt nimbly back.

There was a sudden burning in his side. He looked down, suprised to see red. Swords clashed in Liam's head. The smell of salt.

When he looked up, the man had a smug smile on his face, even though he had a hand pressed over his right side and was panting.

"Who are you?" Liam roared over the ringing steel.

He charged forward, not waiting for an answer. He swung wildly when he was within arm's reach.

The man dodged easily and suckerpunched Liam in the jaw. His head snapped back and he tasted blood. On the follow through, Liam suddenly reached out and snagged the bearded man's arm. He locked his own arm around it and the man's neck, effectively pinning it upwards.

Liam used his other arm to block the glint of silver he saw flashing toward him out of his peripherals. When momentum was gone, Liam reached out and snapped up the wrist in an iron grip.

Weapon secured, Liam let go of the man's neck and arm, shoved him back off his balance, and swung him around. In one fluid motion, Liam had the knife in one hand and with the other, twisted the man's arm up his back so far he thought he could hear bones creaking. He threw the blade down and clamped his now free hand on the man's shoulder.

"Cirian! Where are we with the cops?" Liam shouted, breathing hard.

The swords never stopped ringing. If Cirian answered, Liam didn't hear him. He snuck a glance at the young man sitting, dazed, in the corner with a wad of dirty paper towels against his wound. His eyes were heavy-lidded and glassy, but it felt as if Liam had been out on the beach with the boy just yesterday.

The older man shook himself out of his memories and refocussed on the task at hand. He had to figure out what to do with his prisoner. If he let go, the man would bolt, but there was nothing in this bathroom to tie the monster up.

Grinding his teeth back and forth once or twice thoughtfully, he knew what he had to do. He was  _not_ , however, loathe to do it.

With frightening efficiency, Liam had dragged his struggling prisoner a few steps to the sink. He knocked the mystery man's head into the porcelain once, twice, and he went boneless. Liam let him go and was at Diarmuid's side before the villain even hit the floor.

Liam reached up and grabbed for more paper towels off the counter. Gently, he pried the boy's clenched hand away from the wound and quickly replaced it with his own. Diarmuid winced at the pressure, but otherwise made no sound.

Diarmuid looked up at him, then, his eyes fever bright and slightly unfocused. He reached up a sticky, red hand and touched Liam's face gently. The boy smiled, dammit, he actually smiled.

"Glé thric," he said again, slurring heavily. His face screwed up in frustration and when he spoke again, his voice was much clearer. "I… I dreamt about you. I missed you. I… We… we died… together… didn't we? Th-that man… Sir… Raymond? I... never got to... to the end..."

Hot tears suddenly blurred the older man's eyes as Diarmuid rambled and he willed them not to fall.

"Liam," he corrected gently, putting his own hand over Diarmuid's. "My name is Liam Byrne. I've missed you, little monk. Don't speak, okay? Save your strength."

The young mans eyes widened. Tenderly, Liam leaned forward and touched their foreheads together. Another shock thrummed through him. 

"Liam… I… I've never… never heard your… your voice before…" Diamruid breathed, smiling faintly. "It's nice…"

Then Diarmuid's eyes closed and his body went limp against Liam's side. The bathroom door burst open, bringing with it a squad of armed police officers and several EMTs.

* * *

 

Notes:

All right, all right, ill admit that this chapter was a cheap cop out. I'm a sucker for fight scenes and i just didn't know if i had the mental space for an emotional reunion. however, that being said, i did want to get you guys something kind of sweet for Valentine's Day hahahaha


	7. Chapter 7

 

Chapter Seven

Liam was frozen.

Went into some sort of shock, he figured.

The swords had quieted in their ringing, but were never fully reticent. They seemed to crash in time with his heart.

He had a muddy recollection of the police prying him away from Diarmuid to question him. Liam only only let go of the young man when one of the paramedics, a girl with dark skin and hair, who looked far too young to be doing this job, got in his face and kindly (but very firmly) promised they'd take good care of him, but he needed to let go  _now._

He'd sat motionless on the cold floor, watching the paramedics work. His lungs didn't feel like they were performing as well as they could be.

When they quickly bundled the young man away on a stretcher, Liam finally stood and stared after them until the troup left his sight. An officer stood to block the door from nosy onlookers.

Another team of medics bustled away at whoever that man was on the floor, strapping his unconscious form to another gurney.

Police bagged the knife quickly. Liam thought he saw Cirrian's face pop up over the officer's shoulder. His head was throbbing in time to the swords.

"Do you want to walk out of here or do you want a stretcher?"

"What?" Liam looked down, startled at being addressed amidst all the organized chaos.

It was the too young woman to whom he'd spoken to before, standing off to his left. There were spots of blood on the shoulder of her blue scrubs now. Liam's stomach clenched.

"Sir, are you aware you're injured?"

He'd forgotten about his side. Liam pulled the sticky red fabric away to survey his wound.

He mentally rolled his eyes at the four inch gash. Blood still wept from it. Probably needed stitches. He glanced back at the paramedic. Liam just nodded, throat too tight to speak. His pulse had begun to thud in his head. His chest began to heave. Couldn't pull enough air in his lungs.

 _'Stay calm,'_  he pleaded with his body, inhaling sharply through his nose.  _'Now is not the time,'_

"Do you want to follow me, or am I going to have to call my colleagues back here?" She squinted at him, eyes uncomfortably sharp. "You're too pale. And shaking. And I don't like the look of your breathing patterns. I can see it from here."

Careless. He'd been too careless. His reflexes were getting too slow. He was getting soft. Tomorrow he'd look into a training gym or something. His fingers curled into tight fists.

"Sir, we'd also like a word, when you're able," a voice behind him said.

A hand on his shoulder.

Autopilot engage. Liam steeled himself not to twitch and slowly turned to face the guard whom he knew was not a guard, but a police officer. He stared blankly at the older man.

"What's your name, son?"

"Sir, Byrne, Liam, Private, 35-825-495, sir," he heard himself respond from very far away.

He clenched his fists harder, fingernails digging painfully into his palms. Good. That kept him centered. Good.

"Mr. Byrne, are you all right?"

Liam shook his head, trying to clear the impending tunnel vision. The officer took it to mean  _no, I am not all right_. Which was also true. His hands felt hot and clammy.

_'That don't seem right.'_

"Sir, 'm just havin' an episode," Liam gasped, pressing the palm of his hand to his temple. He forced himself to continue, spitting the next words out as if it were a piece of glass in his tongue "PTSD."

His head was very light and his officer looked very concerned. He held tight to Liam's arm, for which he was grateful.

Liam looked towards the nice paramedic lady and mumbled defeatedly as his vision shrank, "Think we're gonna need that stretcher, after all."

Before the noise faded, Liam managed to say, "Miss, if it's possible, I'd like to follow the kid." He thought he said it, anyway. Felt his lips move.

And then it was Liam's turn to black out.

* * *

They walked in line, guard leading Diarmuid first. The next in line was the guard with the broken nose, leading the Mute. The last guard brought up the rear, and they all had their swords at the ready. The pair were far enough apart they could not speak openly, and the guards appeared to quickly understand that their captives needed no words to communicate.

Diarmuid had never felt so powerless. His head and shoulder throbbed and his legs didn't seem to want to stay under him. Each stumble was punished with a hard yank on the ropes binding his hands, usually resulting with him down on one knee and an impatient swat from the flat side of a sword.

The guard behind him was  _very_  impatient.

He risked a glance back at the Mute as he struggled back to his feet. He was faring no better. The man was pale and trembling, not from fear, but from blood loss, exhaustion and anger. Since being tossed to the ground, a slow, steady stream of bright, fresh blood trickled from the torn skin. He was breathing heavily and staring furiously at the ground as he hobbled along.

As if he could feel Diarmuid's gaze he looked up and for an instant, they stared blankly at each other. It was almost like looking into the empty eyes of a stranger. Diarmuid had never seen such helplessness in the man's features before. A flash of something passed over his face so fast, the monk couldn't be sure he'd seen it.

Then, slowly, the Mute returned his gaze to the ground, his jaw clenched.

"I said  _eyes forward!_ " the guard barked.

Diarmuid didn't see the blade coming, but he heard it cut through the air. Felt it strike across his cheekbone and the opening of his ear. A high pitch whine tore through the air. A wild glance around told him no one else heard it or they'd've reacted. Something hot ran down his face and Diarmuid imagined his brains melting.

He was on the ground again, elbows in the dirt. Didn't remember falling. Twitched away and landed on his side when the guard suddenly had his own face a foot away from Diarmuid's, apparently yelling. A vein bulged in the older man's sunburnt neck.

The young monk wondered why he couldn't understand him. The whine drowned everything out. Was vaguely aware of the guard ahead of him turning around. His bearded mouth moved soundlessly.

With a start, Diarmuid realized he was deaf.

His vision swam dangerously. He brought his bound hands up to touch the side of his face and they came away red. If bits of liquified brains were trickling out of his ears, he wouldn't have been surprised.

The monk closed his eyes, trying to process, only for them to be startled open again by a hand gripping his chin tightly. His guard was laughing now, it looked like. The older man twisted Diarmuid's head to the side to look at his handywork. Chuckled again.

He said something else the monk didn't hear, wasn't looking at him anyway, and then hauled the both of them standing with little effort. The motion continued until Diarmuid found himself slung over the broad shoulder. The breath whooshed out of him in what felt like a sob. His face burned.

Before a strip of cloth obscured his sight, he saw the Mute, head down, eyes tightly closed, hands clenched into fists. Then, the fabric was yanked into a painful knot at the back of his head, and blotted out the world. Diarmuid struggled briefly until a hand gripped his hair tight and pulled. He froze until the hand let go, barely breathing.

* * *

When Diarmuid awoke, it was dark. Not pitch black, but dark. There was a bit of light coming from somewhere. Where was he?

He was cold, and his mind felt fuzzy. He thought his ear was ringing. There was an uncomfortable pressure on his collarbone and he could barely see out of his left eye. His hair felt like it was still twisted in the guard's grasp. Somehow, he was alive.

Groaning softly, he raised his arm to rub at his sore scalp, and noted the tube sticking out of the back of his pale hand.

Ah. So  _that_  explained the pleasant mental fog. An IV drip. He was in a hospital. It'd been another dream.

A hospital.

The memories suddenly crashed into to him so hard he actually shuddered. The guards, his sudden, violent deafness. He reached for his ear, but no--

 _'No, wait, it was a man in the bathroom,'_  he thought slowly.

He'd had a fancy, silver knife. Diarmuid gasped and touched where he'd felt the blade penetrate skin. His icy fingers met with gauze and tape.

The bandage was the uncomfortable pressure he'd been feeling. There were probably stitches beneath the dressings. The stranger had missed his throat by inches.

The young man let his eyelids flutter closed again, heaving a sigh of relief.

Whatever was in his IV bag was pleasant. It almost made him forget how chilled he was.

Careful of the tugging on any wires, Diarmuid drew both arms under his blankets and hugged himself for a little extra warmth. A shiver ran up his spine.

_'Wait, where was…?'_

His green eyes suddenly shot open. The Mute. Liam.

He struggled to shove himself upright. Groaned when his sluggish body protested such mutinous actions. The ringing in his ears morphed into a fast paced beep. Diarmuid squinted around the dim hospital room blearily.

There.

There was another bed on far right of him. It was half obscured by a blue privacy curtain pulled partially between the room, but Diarmuid could see a lump beginning to stir under the blankets. There came a soft groan and Diarmuid's heart monitor began to beep a little faster. Could it be?

 _"Glé thric?"_  he called softly, then he remembered and added, almost shyly, "Mr. Byrne?"

His response was a grunt. Then a gasp, and with enough speed to make him yelp, the curtain flew open with a rattle. The flimsy fabric settled with a swish, and Liam was suddenly towering over him, his eyes dark and glinting in the gloom.

Startled, Diarmuid almost fell back. His mouth popped open in surprise, but he made no other sound. Neither did Liam. The young man stared back in silence for what felt like forever.

 _'Are you real?'_  Diarmuid wanted to ask. He wanted to reach out and touch his arm to make sure.  _'What happens now?'_

"S-still dark and brooding, I see," he instead joked weakly.

Liam's lips twitched upwards, but he nodded at the young man seriously. Diarmuid's smile faltered and he looked down at his lap, face hot.

Of course he was serious. They'd just been in a life threatening situation and almost died. Now wasn't the time to be making jokes. What if the older man was seriously injured? He'd have been hurt helping him; a stranger in this life, really.

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Byrne, I was just…" he began to babble, but was stopped before he got too far.

He felt Liam nudge his shoulder and looked up. A smile played over the ex-soldier's face and the glint in his eyes was actually more of a twinkle. Diarmuid chuckled, relieved.

"Liam," he corrected again. He sat gingerly on the edge of Diarmuid's bed, favoring his side. "How you feelin', kid?"

Liam's voice was low and soothing. Diarmuid tried to hide the way it sent another shiver up his spine. He rubbed at his tender scalp again to give his hands something to do.

"Sore, but alive, thanks to you."

"Doctors say you'll be fine. Missed your jugular by a few inches."

"Yeah, whew. Um, are you all right? I must have passed out. I thought you got shot… by an… arrow or something… I dreamt… again…" as Diarmuid trailed off, his eyes glazed over and touched his ear. He shook his head and looked up, "Sorry, this IV has me all muddled. Are you all right?"

Liam nodded, brows furrowing a bit. He had a funny feeling he knew what the young man had been dreaming about.

Subconsciously, he touched the spot on his stomach where the odd weapon shaft had pierced him so many nights in his sleep now. He jarred himself out of his thoughts.

"Couple of stitches, a few bruises, nothing serious," he assured him. He decided to probe the young man a little further, but Diarmuid jumped on the moment of silence. 

"It's so good to see you well," Diarmuid smiled, then shrugged. "I mean, as well as one  _can_  be in a hospital, i guess."

"You too, little monk. Apparently we got lucky again." Liam wanted to ruffle his hair, he refrained. "You said you had another dream?"

There were a few moments of silence as they looked at one another in the dark. Vague details of the dream played at the edge of his mind. Even so, Diarmuid's eyelids began to feel heavy, damn them.

Diarmuid looked down at his lap and nodded, blinking slowly.

"Me too. Week or so, now."

Startled, he looked up again. Liam nodded this time.

"Nasty stuff," Liam sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"When i wake up, i can still feel…" the young man trailed off again, eyes going blank once more. He twitched almost imperceptibly. Liam dipped his head and let him take his time. If Diarmuid's dreams were half as bad as his own, he understood. Expected it, even.

What Liam did not expect was for his new found companion to veer off topic.

"What happened to your hands?" Diarmuid asked, looking at the bandages wrapped around both of Liam's palms. "I didn't see…"

Right.

Liam had almost forgotten about that. Turned out his hands hadn't been clammy, they'd been bloody. He'd clenched his fists so hard, he'd broken skin. He didn't think they'd be too bad, but he hadn't had a proper look at them since he'd woken up in his own hospital bed. Liam stared down at them in the dim light filtering in from the hallway, unsure of what to say.

He must of slipped into his thoughts a little too long because he felt a soft, cold hand touch his arm.

"Liam?" came a whisper.

The older man sighed again, turning to give Diarmuid a tired smile. The poor kid looked like he could barely stay awake anymore.

"Short story? Anxiety attack,"

"Oh. What's the long version?"

"I'd rather not talk about it. Not right now," Liam's tone of voice came out more clipped than he would of liked and it made Diarmuid flinch a little.

Guilt washed over the both of them, for reasons they each misunderstood. Diarmuid pulled his hand away, thinking he'd offended. Hurt filled his bleary eyes. Liam caught it in his own hand, afraid he thought he was angry. He held tight to Diarmuid, still silent. His throat began to ache.

How could the little monk care about his problems at a time like this. He'd almost died.

Liam covered Diarmuid's hand with his other, trying to warm it as a distraction to himself as he thought of how to explain. The soft, pale skin underneath his own rough skin. He thought he smelled salt again and shook his head.

The memories were swirling around his mind in no semblance of order, dream or otherwise. Singing swords mixed with gunfire. Huts on fire and IEDs. Horses and convoys. Peasants screaming or refugees crying. It was tough to sort through and find a solid beginning to build the tale off of.

He must have taken too long again.

"'m sorry, I juss--" floated out of the dark, making Liam jump. He caught the slur in Diarmuid's voice.

"No, no,  _I'm_  sorry," Liam interrupted, still not looking at him. Couldn't bear to see the sadness on his friend's face. It hurt to speak, but he pressed on in a strained whisper. "I just… I don't know how to  _do_  this. It feels like… now's not the time to talk about my troubles."

_"Glé thric."_

Liam looked up. That word, which should be so familiar, still surprised him and filled him with warmth.

Diarmuid was squinting at him, trying hard to keep his eyes focused. He was swaying slightly as he sat. Liam had a sudden flash of the boy in his robes, trying hard to stay awake for a late midnight mass and the memory made him smile. There would be time enough for storytelling later.

"It's okay, little monk. We're all right. I promise i'll tell you when you're more conscious. For now, let's just say the stress got to me a little," he said, voice still tight. This time, Liam did reach out to ruffle the dark curls.

Feining annoyance, Diarmuid made to bat his hand away, but he couldn't stop the goofy grin from spreading over his face.

"Get some more rest," Liam advised gently. He cleared his throat quietly, trying to ease the pressure.

If Liam didn't know any better, he'd say the kid started pouting. It looked like he wanted to say something else, but instead, Diarmuid nodded and started the of process laying down.

 _'Apparently this will be an Olympic event from now on,'_  he thought, finally flopping on his back. He grunted softly as he jarred his wound. Deep sigh.

The dark room was already fading. Whatever was in the IV was still working. He felt the bed shift slightly as Liam got to his feet. Squeezed his hand before letting go.

"You'll still… be here… in the morning?" He heard himself mumble, eyes closing on their own.

"Yeah, kid, I'll be here."

"Good…"

Diarmuid's breathing quickly evened out and he was gone again, this time in an easy pattern of peaceful drifting. Liam grabbed his own blanket and carefully draped it over the former monk.

Liam went back to his bed and did not sleep a wink all night.

* * *

NOTES: I LIIIIIIVE. Hey, so someone pick out a cool serial number for Liam and ill change it. There is, apparently, a code to it that i can't seem to grasp and i pulled out a random number. The amount of WW2 casualties lists I've looked at trying to figure it out has been crazy lol this chapter feels like a wreck, but i love it. :) 

* * *


End file.
